


Can't Fight This Feeling

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wrestling, Best Friends, Bottom Dean, Dean Versus Feelings, Episode: s11e15 Beyond the Mat, Eventual Smut, Fight Sex, Fights, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Humorous Ending, M/M, Porn With Plot, Top Castiel, Wrestler Castiel, Wrestler Dean, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “That’s what happens when you get cocky,” Dean retorts with a smirk of his own.Cas shrugs—as best he can pinned beneath Dean, anyway. “Worth it.”





	Can't Fight This Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thanks to my best friend for pointing out that I haven't written a wrestling au when I brought up the topic in casual conversation. I combined wanting to write smut with that and this is the byproduct.
> 
> Also, I've never sat down to learn about various wrestling moves until today. The places your writing can take you.

“C’mon, you can do better than that.”

“Better than a crotch lift pickup?” Dean remarks disbelievingly between breaths.

He’s not out of shape—far from it. Yesterday, he took down Mike “The Miz” Mizanin with a single lateral drop, much to Gunner’s amusement. Mizanin is an overcompensating douchebag, which isn’t out of the ordinary for a newbie. Dean only knows he’s overcompensating after his Lenny Kravitz moment in the ring last week when his shorts ripped in front of nearly 100,000 people.

“Who’s the one pinning who to the floor right now?” Castiel, known in the ring as Fallen Grace, raises his brows in point at The Hunter. (Don’t look at Dean. He wanted something cooler, but apparently, according to his manager, ponchos haven’t been cool ever.) Then, Cas’s face scrunches like he’s the one being crushed by the weight of not only his body, but his bold blue eyes.

Knowing that expression all too well, Dean sighs—as best he can anyway with a hundred-seventy pounds against him—before Cas helps him up. “Seriously,” he continues, “what’s going on?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing. Probably just pre-game nerves.”

“Dean, you’re never nervous for the fights.”

Dean bites his lip. He’s not sure why he can’t lie around Cas. In the show, they call it their “Profound Bond”. The story it’s their love for winning that unites the ex-best friends only to tear them apart again. (If you ask Dean, the writers are honing in on two relatively handsome guys and milking them for their worth—it’s a plotline that’s been drawn out since ’08. But the audience loves them, because tickets sell out typically the next day to see them compete.)

But in reality, he and Cas haven’t stopped being friends. Most of the wrestlers are like Mizanin, insecure, and as a result: arrogant and short-tempered. But Cas isn’t in it to win. He just wants to make a name for himself, and Dean respects that. Having been ingrained into the foster care system until a man by the name of Bobby Singer, may he rest in peace, adopted him and his brother when they were teens, Dean can definitely understand where he’s coming from. Cas was homeless before his big break. He fought on the street for basic survival before Gunner, their Obi-Wan Kenobi, took him up on a contract.

The caramel tips of Dean’s hair are decorated with little lightbulbs of sweat until he runs his hands through them. Each blade is its own trampoline, spilling lost light on his hands. He really needs a haircut. “I don’t know. I guess my head’s not really in it today.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Cas scoffs in his usual brutal honesty. He folds his arms over his chest, forcing Dean’s eyes to his tan and almost, if not completely, dry torso. Dean must really be off his game if Cas literally didn’t break a sweat turning him around on that crotch lift. “Where is it?”

 _I can tell you where it_ wants _to be,_ Dean thinks, gaze straying south. Unlike Mizanin, Cas is smart enough to wear a cup—for both his protection during the fight and protection from Dean’s eyes. Dean’s lost track of the time he’s woken up in a sweat from dreaming about Cas. He’s surprised he even wakes up so easy, granted in his dreams, those equally tanned and unreasonably thick thighs are covering his ears…

Needless to say, when Dean goes off on that tangent, he doesn’t reply, so Cas answers for him: “Okay. Hit me with your best shot.”

Dean snaps his attention back to Cas’s face. “What?”

“You heard me,” he replies, outstretching his arms.

“I don’t—”

“If you want to take a swing at me, go ahead,” he says, unfazed. “I won’t fight back.”

Dean laughs, albeit nervously, “Cas. Why would I want to purposely hit you?”

“You tell me.”

Dean gulps. Does he really mean what he thinks he means—that Dean would want to punch Cas because he’s the one stirring all these sexual fantasies? Dean knows he likes guys… sort of. Okay, he definitely likes guys; he just never... _acts_ on liking them. Gunner was actually his first fanboy crush before he made it into the Big Leagues, and then every prospect of finding out why his last name is Lawless went out the window. And no, there’s nothing in their contract that says you can’t date coworkers. Gabe “The Trickster” and Kali “Flame Thrower” have been together for ten years.

Okay, so maybe he’s feeling a little bit resentful. But not towards Cas—God, he can never hate Cas, the fact that he’s offering this no-cost human smash therapy proves how good a person he is. No, the resentment is aimed towards himself. For _not_ manning up to his feelings and just asking Cas out. Dean is a wrestler, for Christ’s sake, he should know to tackle a simple crush.

But that’s his problem: He’s physically able. Verbally, not so much. But he can’t leave Cas to think that it’s his responsibility to try and fix him. “No,” he says, waving his hand. “I can’t.” When Cas doesn’t budge on his offer, Dean’s voice grows more stern: “ _No._ I _won’t_.”

“Tell me what’s bothering you then,” Cas says, flipping his palms face up. “Go on.”

Dean grinds his jaw in response.

“See, I know you, Dean,” Cas states, stepping closer. “Words aren’t your thing. You’re a physical guy. You communicate through your actions—which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It can be frustrating and time-consuming at times, but I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

Dean looks away.

“And really, what’s the worst you can do?” he adds, no more than a foot away now. His breath is warm and smells like the White Castles they had for lunch. “I’ve got you beat by two matches.  One more and I’ll steal your belt out from underneath you, because you can’t take a—”

Dean surges for Cas before he can finish. Using the crook of his left arm, he latches onto the other man’s shoulder, pinching to create the perfect overhook. Next, Dean takes his line, which is Cas’s frame slumped over and ducks underneath with his right foot first, uses his right arm to swing under Cas’s free one, and sinks him with Cas flying onto his back with Dean half on top of him. A cross between impressed and surprised judging by the smile tugging at his lips despite the vast space between them, Cas says, “Lateral drop,” amidst a windless chuckle, “not bad.”

“That’s what happens when you get cocky,” Dean retorts with a smirk of his own.

Cas shrugs—as best he can pinned beneath Dean, anyway. “Worth it.”

He’s still leaning over Cas, even closer than he was to him moments ago. He can almost hear the roar of the crowd echoing against his ribcage, even though that’s just his own heart. However, both are urging him in the same fanatical fashion. Dean licks his lips and before he can let his mind silence the sound of his heart, he surges forward and kisses him.

It’s both passionate and violent at the same time—he’s sure his teeth will be imprinted into Cas’s lips after this—but what do you expect from a pro wrestler? Even better is Cas is kissing him back with the same enthusiasm. His lips are chapped, but supple enough to take tongue—and give it, too. Dean repositions himself so Cas’s arms won’t be trapped, straddling his hips enough that they can keep kissing. Cas’s arms sling across his back and grip into the bare flesh as Dean starts running his ass against Cas’s dick like a rolling pin through their cups.

Because Dean knows neither of them aren’t getting any friction with the cups in the way, it’s not long until Cas is voicing he’s ready for the oven, moaning between their make out session: “Dean… _please_. Ride me.”

Dean breaks away moving lower to trail his spit-slick lips down Cas’s torso. Cas bucks into it, hitting the heat pooling in Dean’s abdomen. He can get off to that alone, but Dean doesn’t go back on his word. After all, he’s a man who speaks through his actions. So, in one fluid motion, he yanks Cas’s shorts over his ass along with his underwear and dives into Cas for the ultimate crotch lift.

Cas grips onto Dean’s hair and breathes a sigh of pleasure as Dean takes him in down to the base—but not for too long, leaving Cas writhing in anticipation. Dean takes a moment to admire what he’s created. Cas looks gorgeous like this: eyes screwed shut, head thrown back, miles of tanned and stubbled neck exposed as he waits to come. He can even see a single bead of sweat crawling in eagerness down the middle of his chest from where Dean’s lips had been.

Now that he’s slick enough, between Dean’s tongue and waiting it out, Dean lifts up a little to rid his own shorts and underwear, leaving them both completely exposed in the ring, and sinks onto Cas.

Dean thought he looked gorgeous pre-coitus. It’s even more unbelievable in the midst of it, when that _one_ thrust hits just right, because Dean can see every little detail, like the hard wrinkles around his eyes and nostrils before his jaw drops with one last, large full-body roll Dean can feel reverberate through him.

When they both come down from their highs, Cas, propped up on his hands, laughs, “You’ll have to teach me _that_ technique sometime.”


End file.
